Why Rita Lets Him Stay
by scuttlesworth
Summary: Why Rita sticks with Dex. Rated T for references. Reviews very welcome. :


She knows he's not normal, of course. There's no escaping that fact. How could someone so perfect for her possibly be considered normal when she's so broken inside?

He's always there when she needs him, and never when she doesn't. He's never offended, never pushy, never aggressive, never angry. He's always nice, kind, cheerful, a little bit slow, a little bit confused. He lets her lead the dance.

He lets her lead. That's the thing that terrifies her. He's so passive, so ready for her to be in charge. She's not used to it. She's used to orders couched as requests, implicit threats, and a constant low-grade fear. Letting go of that fear is terrifying. But he's sweet and gentle and she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will never, ever hit her, never attack her, never cause her harm.

He can come across as a little effeminate at times. She wondered, once, if he were gay. She was ok with it, really. Had herself half-convinced that she could exist on friendship alone. But then… then. A moment, a single moment when he kissed her - inexpertly but with real desire. Real heat. And it broke through something inside her, terrified her. Because she felt desire in return. And her own desire scared her more than anything else could.

Her desire had been her weakness. All those years with her first husband, desire had kept her making excuses. Her desire for a happy family, her desire for her marriage to work out, her desire for her husband. For the rough comfort of being wanted enough to push past her objections. Her belief, after the rape, that somehow it meant he loved her. Cared for her. That even after the beatings she could somehow tame him if she cooked well enough, smiled prettily enough, loved him enough. And that desire, twisted out of true, had blinded her to everything. Except her children. In the end, when he raised his hand to them, she had seen her life with actinic clarity and chosen to surgically remove him from her heart.

She'd never thought to love again. Her heart was missing a piece, a huge chunk. She'd hoped, in dating Dexter, that she could simply… practice a little. Deb had been so sure Dexter was safe. Kind. So Rita decided to take a chance within the safety net of friendship - if he misbehaved, she could tell Deb. Deb was a fierce woman, full of passion, terrifying when passion had done so much damage - but she was kind, too. Protective, careful, a shield when they'd needed it. Her brother might be the same; might be protective instead of destructive. Rita needed to be able to handle men, needed not to flinch when someone made a pass at her, needed to be back on her feet again after so many years of erosion. She needed time to rebuild.

Dexter was nothing like his sister. He was no font of passion, no fierce protector. He was handsome, athletic, and somehow half-absent. Absent-minded, too; he tended to forget things. He bemused her, confused her, but never made her feel alarm or fear; he simply wasn't emotionally present half the time. She was the aggressor, trying to pry him out of his shell. She was the one who planned things, who made decisions, who led the way. It was new, it was terrifying, and it fascinated her.

She could be brave when he was there. She could go out and enjoy herself and know there was someone here to stand beside her, someone to talk to, someone who would not leave her alone. Someone who occasionally felt like a blank shadow of a person, but who came alive at the right times. Someone who her children seemed to like without reservation. He was all jokes and smiles over something hollow, she knew that; but sometimes under the hollowness she could see a little boy, something sweet. Something good.

And she's afraid he won't stay. Something inside her is afraid he doesn't really care. Some damaged piece of her heart that equates physicality to love refuses to accept that a man who does not try to force himself on her could possibly care as much as one who does. She tries not to let it show, but it comes out: unreasonable requests at improbable hours in a slightly-too-desperate tone of voice. Snapping when she's tired. Pushing, just a little, to see if he'll break and leave. But he never does. He always comes through. He passes every test she doesn't realize she's giving him until after she's said the words and is holding her breath, waiting for his response. And he always turns up.

So what if sometimes he's married to his job? Loads of men are. Despite his protestations, despite his low-key descriptions, he's obviously important. He gets called in so often, works so late. This is a new thing for her to deal with; after all, her first husband wasn't exactly a career-oriented sort of guy. So now she knows what all those other women are talking about when they complain about feeling second best, about feeling left out or abandoned. And it feels… good. Normal. Right, even, to have those same complaints. It's such a relief to stand there and nod sympathetically with their complaints while deep inside she feels a little glee under her heart, running in circles, saying: normal, normal, normal. Safe, steady, secure.

He never argues with her. He might evade, he might turn stubbornly silent with puppy-dog eyes - but he never argues. Sometimes it frustrates her. Whenever it gets too much, she goes and looks in on her sleeping children and deliberately calls up the image of her first husband hitting them. That one blow that killed their lives together. Then she goes and looks in on Dexter, sleeping sprawled with his mouth open, the sleep of complete unconsciousness - or sitting on the couch staring vacantly at the television, as though it were some window onto an alien world - and she thinks: he will never hit me. He will never hit my children. He is safe. And her heart fills, and she comes over and sit by him and smiles and watches his eyes focus on her face and that blank look slide away. There's always a touch of uncertainty to him; he's never sure of her response until it's happening, and when she smiles he relaxes.

And his hands. Secretly, silently, her fetish - the thing that makes her heart beat a little faster and her mouth dry up. His clever, clever hands, that sometimes touch the small of her back, her shoulder, so gently. He can disguise his body in bright rayon and he can disguise his eyes with smiles, he can laugh and act harmless, but his hands give it away. Rough, strong. Not the hands of a soft paper-pusher. Fishing, she tells herself, when she holds his hands and feels the callouses. He goes fishing a lot. Ropes and boats and hard work. He's so fit. But deep down where the scars on her heart lie, something burns with an excitement that she'll never admit to, never voice. Something kindled by his hands, by his touch.

He keeps it so well hidden. He's damaged, she knows that. But she hopes if she smiles enough, perhaps a little of that uncertainty will ease. Perhaps he'll relax a bit more around her.

She has time, now. She has him. Unexpected, unlooked for, but there nonetheless; a baffled knight in a terrible shirt with anxious eyes and powerful hands. Someday she'll fix him.

Slowly, they're fixing each other.


End file.
